The Bride Test (The Kiss Quotient 2)

“Esme—”

“Anh Kh?i—”

He hesitated, surprised by the trembling of her hands. Unlike him, she really did shake when she was nervous, and he brushed his thumbs over her knuckles, hoping to soothe her. “You can go first if you want.”

With a lift of her chin, she said, “Okay, me first.”

She licked her lips and adjusted her hands so she could hold him as he held her. Several times, she started to speak but stopped before any words came out.

“Do you want me to go first, then?” he asked.

“No, I can.” She sucked in another breath and chewed on her bottom lip before she said, “When I first came here, I had reasons to marry you. Lots of reasons. And I got close to you for those reasons. But then . . .” Her eyes met his. “Then I got to know you.” Her fingers tightened around his. “And I got close because I wanted to be close. A lot of times, I forget my reasons. Because I’m happy. With you. You make me happy.”

Khai’s chest filled, and his heart raced, and he couldn’t help smiling. There were an infinite number of reasons to exist on this earth, but that seemed the most important of them all—making Esme happy.

“I’m glad,” he said.

“Maybe it’s too fast, maybe it’s not smart, but . . .” She smiled slowly, her eyes soft and liquid in the moonlight, and said in clear English, “I love you.”

His lungs stopped breathing. His heart stopped beating.

Esme loved him.

Warmth bubbled over him in overwhelming waves. What had he done that she loved him? He’d do it a million more times. He brought her hands to his mouth and breathed a kiss to her knuckles. He couldn’t speak, had no clue what to say.

Looking beautiful beyond compare with the moon and the stars and the water behind her, a teasing smile curved over her mouth, and she asked, “Do you love me? Maybe just a little?”

He went cold.

Not that question. Why had she asked that question?

He could give her every thing she wanted, a green card, real diamonds, his body, but love?

Stone hearts didn’t love.

He didn’t want to answer the question. All of him rebelled against it.

But he made himself admit the truth. “I don’t.”

She blinked and shook her head before she smiled again. “You love me more than a little.”

“No, Esme.” He stepped back and let go of her. “I’m sorry . . . but I don’t love you a lot or a little. I don’t love you at all.”

I can’t.

Her face went slack, her eyes wide, watery. “Not at all?” she whispered.

“I don’t love you.” His entire being hurt like it was imploding. “I never will.”

“This isn’t funny,” she said.

“I’m not joking. I’m completely serious.”

She didn’t say a single word. She just stared at him as fat tears spilled down her face. He wanted to take his words back. He wanted to erase her sadness. He’d do almost anything to make her smile again.

But he couldn’t lie about this. She’s asked him the question, and she deserved to know the answer.

* * *